


Cohabit

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Commitment, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Living Together, M/M, Men Crying, Motorcycles, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-02 15:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ishimaru clears his throat. 'Kyoudai?' he says again, sounding a little uncertain even as his shoulders stiffen as if to double down on the conviction of his posture. 'Am I meant to open my eyes yet?'" Mondo keeps his promise to Ishimaru and they make a new one between them.





	Cohabit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



“You really don’t hafta shut your eyes,” Mondo says, speaking loudly so some part of his voice will carry to Ishimaru pressing close behind him and clutching to Mondo’s waist as if he’s in imminent danger of falling with every turn. “It wouldn’t be so scary if you saw where we’re going.”

“I’m not frightened!” Ishimaru shouts back. He’s speaking too loudly -- Mondo can feel the shift of the breath in his chest as he inhales like he’s projecting his voice for a speech to a crowd of hundreds -- but Mondo’s never yet been able to get the other to find the middle ground between shouting himself hoarse and an outright whisper. That might not even have anything to do with their current situation; even when he’s not clinging with white-knuckled force to Mondo’s motorcycle, Ishimaru has a tendency to declaim rather than speak at a normal volume. It might be irritating if it were someone else. At this point Mondo isn’t even particularly embarrassed to admit he finds it cute. “I’m simply ensuring we maintain the greatest safety while we remain in transit to our final destination!”

It’s not actually the most helpful thing he could do. Mondo thinks it would be easier to manage the motion of the bike if Ishimaru had a somewhat lighter grip on him, much less if the other was shifting with the motion of the turns rather than acting like a fixed weight as immobile and clumsy as the bike itself. But they’re not going all that fast, really, and Mondo’s days of reckless maneuvers are long since behind him, so in the end it’s no problem to let his own experience compensate for Ishimaru’s brittle tension to bring them safely through the narrow streets to the lot where Mondo has been spending the majority of his days for the last year. He can feel his heart beating faster as they draw closer, as the first glimpse of the smooth-tiled roof comes into view; by the time he’s shifting down into a lower gear in preparation of stopping he’s nearly as stiff as Ishimaru behind him and twice as clumsy in his movements. He almost misses getting his foot down -- there’s a moment of precarious uncertainty -- but then he manages it, kicking out to brace his scuffed boot against the gravel that forms a makeshift driveway so he can turn off the purr of the motorcycle beneath them. The engine rumbles to a halt, the air around them goes silent and still with the loss, and Mondo is left with one foot on the ground, and Ishimaru clutching against him, and his head lifted up to look at the house in front of him.

It looks smaller like this. He’s spent months building the smooth walls, laying out the crisp corners and constructing the whole array of wires and support beams that lie inside; it never seemed small then, not when every room was another infinity of work to take on. But seen from the outside, with Ishimaru’s arms wrapping close around him, Mondo can feel his heart skid as surely as the tires of his motorcycle did against the gravel, can feel his stomach sink like he’s taken a turn too fast and is about to skid out. There’s a moment of panic, a breath where he thinks about revving the engine to life again, about kicking forward and tearing down the street again with speed enough to jolt any protest Ishimaru might have right out of his head; and then there’s a shift from behind him, a motion of Ishimaru’s knee digging in against his hip, and “Kyoudai?” Ishimaru asks, in a tone very slightly less clear and carrying than the one he used while they were still in motion. “Have we arrived?” His hands shift against the other’s chest, where he’s still maintaining a tight enough hold that Mondo can feel the effort of it trembling in Ishimaru’s arms. “Am I permitted to open my eyes yet?”

“Huh?” Mondo twists around in his seat, startled enough by the question that his own insecurities scatter for at least a breath. Ishimaru is still clinging to him, still pressing tight against the whole line of Mondo’s back; and his eyes are squeezed shut as tightly as if he’s a child obeying some command to not look. It makes Mondo’s heart ache, makes him huff a breath of a laugh; and it eases his nerves and unwinds the panic starting in his chest with the immediate, unavoidable reality of Ishimaru’s need for direction.

“Not yet,” Mondo says, and he reaches to touch at Ishimaru’s hand against him and ease the other’s hold back. Ishimaru frowns at the motion and only lets Mondo go to clutch hard against the other’s wrist instead; Mondo reaches out to lead the other to the edge of the motorcycle, where the metal frame around the seat offers a handle enough to support Ishimaru’s determined balance. That gives him the freedom to get off the bike himself, to slide down and off the front seat entirely while Ishimaru sits like a statue in the space behind him, and then Mondo can turn back around and reach for Ishimaru’s wrist, catching the other’s attention by the touch before he presses his palm to Ishimaru’s hip and pulls to urge the other sideways and off the bike. “You can’t see it all that great from this angle anyway.”

“I’m sure it will be magnificent no matter what it is,” Ishimaru says, with the absolute loyalty that always makes Mondo’s heart ache as if he’s been given something more than he deserves, as if he’s been graced with a gift far beyond any hopes of repayment. It’s familiar, at least, the same way Ishimaru’s awkward movements in getting off the bike are familiar; Mondo knows how to bear the almost-hurt of affection in him as well as he knows to pull Ishimaru in towards him to support the majority of the other’s weight and keep him from dragging the whole of the motorcycle down atop them both as he gets himself free of it. Ishimaru grabs at Mondo’s shoulder, his foot catches against the seat of the motorcycle; but Mondo was expecting that, and keeps his position with most of Ishimaru’s weight braced against him until the other has managed to work his foot free of that same metal railing he was holding to before. Then Ishimaru’s free, and getting both feet solidly under him as he stands up with the perfect, unflinching posture he has had all the years that Mondo has known him, and Mondo is letting his hold go so he can step back by a foot.

Ishimaru is as striking now as he has ever been. Mondo isn’t sure what it is that does it; the other’s clothes are utterly ordinary, there’s nothing remarkable about the dark of his suit or the white of his tie. His pure white prefect uniform was set aside along with graduation, and if Mondo still has fond daydreams of those dark knee-high boots they’re hardly appropriate for Ishimaru’s current work. It’s not the clothes that so draw Mondo’s attention; maybe it’s just the position of Ishimaru’s body, the way he throws his shoulders back and lifts his chin with the same proud dedication he showed through those years of high school that makes his utterly everyday suit look like a uniform, look like a badge of pride. Or maybe it’s just himself, just the dark of his hair and the weight of his lashes and the soft of his mouth; maybe it’s just that Mondo would find Ishimaru remarkable anywhere and anytime, now that he knows the steady fire that smoulders within the other’s veins, the dedication to doing the right thing that trumps even the letter of the law that Ishimaru puts so much store by. Mondo has never known anyone as profoundly, certainly  _good_  as Ishimaru; and as much as he knows he doesn’t deserve the other, he can’t help but absolutely and entirely adore everything that makes him who he is.

Ishimaru clears his throat. “Kyoudai?” he says again, sounding a little uncertain even as his shoulders stiffen as if to double down on the conviction of his posture. “Am I meant to open my eyes yet?”

“Ah,” Mondo blurts, coming back to himself and to this moment in a rush. “No, no, wait, not yet.” He reaches out for Ishimaru’s hand, catching his fingers against the other’s wrist as he turns to look at the sight in front of them; and then he takes in the current angle, and the position of their current view, and the resistance in his shoulders gives way at the same time he feels his stomach drop into the free-fall of terrified anticipation. He tugs at Ishimaru’s hand, urging the other sideways by a half-step, barely a handful of inches to bring him into perfect center; and then he drops the other’s hand, and backs up and away, where he doesn’t have to see Ishimaru’s face in the first moment of realization. He takes a deep breath, reaching for calm to steady himself; and then gusts it out at once, aware even as he makes the attempt that it’s utterly futile. “Okay, yeah, just. Do it.”

Ishimaru’s head tips slightly in the direction of Mondo’s voice. “Are you certain? I may open my eyes?”

Mondo backs away by another step, until he’s pressing up against the support of his motorcycle behind him and can reach back to brace himself hard against the smooth leather of the seat. It helps, a little, just to have the extra support for legs gone shaky in spite of himself. He swallows and ducks his head into a nod even though Ishimaru certainly can’t see the gesture. “Yeah. Open ‘em.”

Mondo can’t see the first moment of Ishimaru obeying. He’s deliberately angled himself behind the other, has consciously ducked away from the stress of that first moment; it’s only his awareness that Ishimaru will follow instruction absolutely that leaves him certain the other is looking at all. All he can see is the line of Ishimaru’s shoulders, the rigid certainty of them as he faces forward; and that’s all Mondo can stand to look at, of the available options. He can’t consider the door with the slightly lopsided hinges, can’t look at the prints of his boots still lingering in the soil soft and dark over the seeds that will become a garden, he hopes; he can’t look at the glass of the windows, not when he’s seeing them now with the focus of Ishimaru’s eyes that are always so fast to pick out flaws in his own appearance, that will surely find the fingerprints Mondo himself is blind to. There’s a thousand little mistakes Mondo knows are there, and surely millions more that will rise to meet Ishimaru’s clear-eyed gaze; and so Mondo ducks his head, and he watches Ishimaru’s shoulders, because it’s easier to watch the other’s unflinching posture than to look at the house that he has been building for the last long months.

It takes Mondo a minute to notice. He’s so focused on what he’s doing, so determined to keep from looking up at the scene in front of them, that it’s a moment before he parses the dip of Ishimaru’s shoulders, before he can tell the difference between that clear, absolute certainty and the first waver in the other’s position. But then Ishimaru takes a breath, the sound as loud as if he had shouted, and it’s in the ragged edges of the sound that Mondo suddenly realizes that Ishimaru’s stance is giving way, that his shoulders are falling out of their usual inhuman perfection and into the unconscious weight that makes him look infinitely more human and infinitely more vulnerable than he usually does. Mondo starts forward immediately, his own nerves scattering like leaves in a high wind before the surge of concern that swamps him, and he’s stepping closer without thinking as he reaches out at once for the dip of Ishimaru’s shoulder.

“Kiyotaka?” His hand touches, Ishimaru’s shoulder dips; the motion is so sudden Mondo has a brief moment of panic that the other is going to collapse just under the weight of his touch, as if the burden of even that minimal contact is too much for him to bear. “Hey, kyoudai, you alright?”

“I’m--” Ishimaru says; except it’s a gasp, the sound is dragging in the back of his throat, and Mondo knows that sound so well he’s moving before he’s thought it through, stepping forward and around so he’s reaching for Ishimaru’s shoulders and drawing the other in against him even before he sees the flood of tears spilling like a waterfall across Ishimaru’s cheeks. His mouth is trembling, his eyes are overflowing, and then Mondo is reaching up to catch at the back of Ishimaru’s head and brace his grip like he’s steadying the other as Ishimaru seizes a gasp of air and hiccups hard over the attempt. “ _Kyoudai_.”

Mondo takes a breath. “Okay,” he says, feeling a little lost as he always is, even now, whenever Ishimaru’s emotions seize hold of him like this. “Happy or sad?” He pauses, considering other options he can offer. “Angry? Are you mad?”

Ishimaru shakes his head hard. “No,” he sobs. “I’m happy, I’m…” He grabs at Mondo’s shoulder, his fingers tightening like he’s bracing himself in place against the other. “This is  _amazing_ , kyoudai.”

Mondo gusts an exhale that is pure relief, whether for himself or for Ishimaru, he’s not entirely sure which and doesn’t care enough to make the distinction. “You’re not upset?”

Ishimaru shakes his head and hiccups over another sob. “You  _made_  this?” he says, his voice swinging up hard at the end in a way Mondo isn’t completely sure is intentional as he tips his head and lifts his hand to gesture towards the house. “Kyoudai, this is…” Another desperate breath, another rush of tears. “I’m so  _proud_  of you.”

Mondo can feel his face heating, can feel color spilling out to suffuse his cheeks to red he can’t hope to fight back. “Jeez,” he says, and lets Ishimaru’s shoulder go so he can rub at the back of his head, can clear his throat in a rough attempt to steady himself. “It’s just a house.”

“That you  _made_ ,” Ishimaru says, and reaches back out to clutch at Mondo’s shoulder like he’s trying to drive home his point through sheer physical effort. “That’s  _incredible_.”

“Oh,” Mondo says. His whole face is burning now; he has no idea how he must look, with his skin glowing like he’s picked up a terrible sunburn. Probably marginally better than Ishimaru, with his red eyes and wet face, but that’s not an enormous comfort. It’s all beside the point anyway, Mondo tells himself firmly, and takes a breath to brace himself for the next step in his plan. It’s hard to speak the words, hard to push himself into action; but Ishimaru is right here, and the house is right here, and Mondo’s been planning this for too long to back out now. He’ll never be anything but a coward if he can’t do this, if he can’t muster the strength to force himself through these words; so he sets his jaw, and fixes himself to determination, and he blurts out the words so fast they sound almost like an accusation instead of the offer they’re meant as.

“I’ll help you move in,” he says, biting the words past his teeth because that’s the only way he can force them out. It makes him sound almost angry, like he’s frustrated instead of terrified; he hopes Ishimaru is too emotional to notice. “I mean.” He clears his throat and tries to lift his tone into something lighter, a little gentler than what he has been offering. He’s not at all sure he succeeds. “If you want to live here, I mean.”

Ishimaru ducks his head at once. “Yes,” he manages to get out, gasping the words between one sob and the next. “Of course, of course I’ll live here.”

That’s good to hear, on some level; but that’s not the point, that’s not what Mondo wants to aim for. Mondo grimaces and tries to reach for more clarity, tries to figure out how to frame words now that he’s venturing beyond the obvious. “Yeah,” he says. “I kept my promise to build your house.” His heart is pounding, his knees are shaking; he feels like he’s going lightheaded, like he might be about to collapse outright into Ishimaru’s tearful hold. He struggles through a breath and soldiers onward, determined to say as much as he can even if he passes out in the attempt. “I was kinda hoping it might be my house too.”

It takes a minute for this to sink in. Mondo can watch the revelation break over the open book of Ishimaru’s face: the first moment of blankness as he makes sense of Mondo’s words, the clarity as the illusion of comprehension sets in; then the confusion, a crease in his forehead and tension at his mouth as Mondo’s words misalign with his understanding of the situation. Ishimaru opens his mouth, ready to give voice to the confusion so clear in his expression; and the words stall, speech giving way to silence as the epiphany rushes over him to knock his eyes wide, to drop his mouth open, to leave him gaping shock at Mondo in front of him instead of frowning confusion. Mondo looks at him for a minute, feeling his heart racing out of all reason in his chest; and then he can’t stand the quiet any longer, and he blurts “Not that I hafta move in,” while Ishimaru is still staring blank shock at him. “I just mean if you wanted.” He takes a breath and clears his throat with rough force. It doesn’t much help. “It’s your house, anyway, you can do whatever you want with it.”

Ishimaru takes a breath. It sounds like a sob even just over the inhale. “ _Kyoudai_.”

“I’m not tryin’ to pressure you,” Mondo says, because he can’t seem to stop talking now that he’s started, it’s like the words are tumbling up his throat and over his lips in spite of his grimacing attempts to stop them. “If you don’t want to you can just say no.”

“No,” Ishimaru says; but his voice is breathless, his tone so incandescent that Mondo is looking up at him all the same, reacting more to the sound of the other’s tone than to the ostensible meaning of his words. Ishimaru’s eyes are shining even with the tears filling them, brilliant as if the wet at his lashes has washed his gaze to further clarity rather than blurred it. He takes a breath and straightens his shoulders with an effort visible in every line of his straining body. “I  _do_  want to.” Ishimaru stares at Mondo for a moment, his lip trembling with an excess of emotion; and then he breaks into a smile, the pull of it spanning the whole of his face even as a fresh flood of tears spill over his lashes and wash across his cheeks. “I’d like to live with you very, very much, kyoudai.”

Ishimaru’s eyes are red, his mouth is shaky, his skin is splotchy with emotion; Mondo has never seen him look so spectacularly, radiantly beautiful. He takes a breath of the air, drawing it long like he’s savouring the experience of the first deep breath he’s managed all day; he feels like the whole of his chest is expanding, like he’s filling with so much sun-bright warmth that he might just lift off the ground in a moment. Ishimaru is still beaming at him, smiling brilliance right through the tears flooding over his wet face; and Mondo can feel his own throat tightening, can feel his chest knotting hard on tension like he’s trying to follow Ishimaru right over the edge into that helpless wash of emotion that always so overruns the other at moments like this.

“Fuck,” he says, and the curse is as rough as a sob in his throat, its form barely discernable from the effort on the sound. “I really love you, Kiyotaka.” And he’s stepping in, and he’s reaching out, and for once even Ishimaru’s rigid sense of propriety gives way, or maybe he’s just lost track of their surroundings entirely; because when Mondo pulls at the back of his head Ishimaru ducks towards him, and when Mondo tips his head Ishimaru’s lips are already parting in anticipation of the heat of the other’s mouth against his.

Mondo can feel the tremor of emotion humming through Ishimaru’s mouth against his as clearly as he can taste the salt of the other’s tears on his tongue; but more clearly than all of that, enough to dominate the whole of his attention, is the tension of the smile fighting for freedom between them.


End file.
